Lessons in Slaying
by Spikora
Summary: FrayBuffy crossover. Melaka gets a new Watcher, who happens to go by the name of Spike. Hmm...
1. New Watcher

Author's Note: I'm putting this in the BtVS section, but in reality it's a BtVS/Fray crossover. For all Buffy fans out there, don't start screaming. Fray is a comic about a Slayer in the future, by Joss Whedon and everything. I recommend reading the comics before reading this, though. And if your thinking, "Oh, I'll read this and if Fray sounds good then I'll read it" just stop right now. This fanfic gives away TONS about Fray, seeing how it takes place *after* the comics.  
  
Ever since Urkonn betrayed me, I guess I haven't trusted easy. So sue me. Urkonn was the closest thing I ever had to a Watcher – he trained me, taught me about being a Slayer, and unlike my real watcher, he didn't set himself on fire before even telling me what the hell a "Chosen One" was. So big deal, he was a demon. He wanted to fight lurks, though, so I was on board. But when things weren't working out, he and the goons got desperate -they killed someone I cared about, all the time pretending Harth and his lurks did it.  
He's dead now.  
But that won't bring Loo back.  
Where was I? Oh, yeah. So I have problems trusting people. So what else is new? I have a sister in the laws, so I can't exactly tell her that I got a cut of a grab. Sister or not, she'd arrest me. And Harth, my other half , was . . . dead? No, that wasn't right. Undead.  
So when the next Watcher-figure came into my life, I didn't exactly give him my trust.  
I was at a tav. Not the one that Amma and Jove ran, cuz that had too many memories. Some other tav. Guy behind the counter was a pump. Still, good drinks, so who cared?  
I didn't notice him at first. Tavs usually draw all types of weird people. There's raddies, pumps, and probably a few demons. Only thing you can't find in a tav is a lurk, but that's because most lurks stick to the dark streets and only surface when their inner demon is screaming at them for blood. Even Icarus, one of the few lurks in control of himself, seldom mixed with humans.  
The guy wasn't tall, but he wasn't short, either. He had blond hair, dyed blue at the tips, and just long enough to fall into his eyes. He had defined cheekbones and a scar through an eyebrow, but amidst robotic arms and eyes dulled by radiation, you don't really notice those types of things. All I knew was that he looked human. He sat down the counter a couple seats, sipping some indistinguishable drink. The only thing that struck me odd about him was his coat. For an instant I thought it was real leather, but it couldn't be. Real leather was only found in the uppers, where people could get special grants for it.  
So here I am, sipping at my drink, minding my own business. Gunther didn't have any grab for me to do, it was too early to get any slaying in, and so I was relaxing. What I didn't count on was him recognizing me.  
"Melaka?"  
I looked up, and there he was. "What's it to you?" I asked, squinting suspiciously. He had sunglasses over his eyes. Slightly strange, yes, but the only reason I noticed is that I usually look people straight ion the eye when talking to them. This may seem like manners or something, but I do it because I find it intimidates people.  
"Harth Fray's sister, yeah?"  
I narrowed my eyes even more. Part of me wanted to yell, Harth's not just my brother, he's my twin. The other part thought it was weird that this guy was referring to me as the sister of a guy who'd officially died four years ago.  
"Why?"  
"Listen, pet, answer my questions and maybe I'll help you. Okay?"  
I nodded reluctantly.  
"Did you know Urkonn?"  
"Yeah. Why? You work for his bosses? 'Cause if you do, I want you to tell them I won their damned war, what else do they want."  
"First off, I work for no one. Second, you won a battle, love. The war is far from over. Harth's still out there, with flocks of lurks ready to follow him at a moments notice."  
"Why should I care?" I asked. I did care, but I didn't trust this creep.  
He sighed. "Mel, you know Harth has a personal vendetta against you. You're his other half. He's the Slayer heritage, you're the Slayer strength. He won't stop until he can do whatever he bloody well pleases with you. And what about your sister, Erin? Do you think she's safe?"  
Okay, so he was striking a nerve. "So, what am I supposed to do? I slay every night, I –"  
"Patrol."  
"What?"  
"When you go out and kill vampires – er, lurks. It's called patrolling."  
I looked at him, stunned, for a bit after that. "So, what else can I do? I mean, I'm not even a complete Slayer."  
"That's what I'm here for, love."  
And so, I met my new Watcher.  
  
TBC 


	2. What Really Happened

A/N: Thanks for reviewing! Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. I'm not the best when it comes to updating. This chapter is mostly dialogue, but the story will get some action soon, don't worry.  
  
"So how do you know so much about me?" I asked.  
"Everyone knows about you, love."  
Well, considering my war with Harth involved the entire warren, killing some huge demon that nearly ate me whole, and Erin's calvary of laws, I guess that made sense.  
"So how do you know so much about Slayers?" I asked.  
He didn't answer, at first. When he did, it wasn't the answer I wanted. "You cared about some kid ... Loo, right?"  
My jaw clenched, but the memories came anyway. Coming back from Erin's after my encounter with Harth, my eyes still burning from crying ... my apartment was ransacked, lurks no doubt ... moving the table and finding her, her head in an impossible angle .... "Yeah," I answered, scarcely recognizing my voice.  
"Well, lurks killed someone I cared for, too. Now, do you want to learn how to kill them faster and better, or do you want to spend all day chatting?"  
"Well, at least tell me what to rutting call you."  
"Spike."  
"So, Spike, what exactly are you going to teach me?" I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. "And how do I know that you're not trying to mess with my head?"  
"Do you know why you're the only Slayer that's been around in over two hundred years?"  
"No."  
"Do you know what happened to the last known Slayer?"  
"Some battle."  
"Do you know anything about your powers?"  
"I know tons! Like, I'm strong, and fast ... and, I'm supposed to have the dreams and the heritage, but –"  
"Harth got them."  
"Exactly."  
"Well, I'm here to give you that heritage, bit by bit."  
I rolled my eyes. "And how, exactly, are you going to do that?"  
"I've got a few Watcher's Diaries, if that's what you mean."  
That caught my interest. "Watcher's Diaries?"  
"Yeah, each one of those wankers was required to keep an account of what their slayer did, how they trained her, and all that rot."  
"Wankers?" I asked. God knows I was never the best in school, but I'd never heard anyone use that word.  
"I don't like them."  
"That is obvious." I hesitated. "What to they say?"  
"The diaries? Ah, tons of stuff. I don't have all of them, though."  
"Where are the rest?"  
"Wish I knew, pet." Spike glared at the menu on the wall, not pleased with the selection. "Bloody gits. No one has any decent beer anymore."  
"Huh?"  
"Never mind."  
"Which diaries do you have?"  
"Well, I've got Giles's diaries, and Wesley's. And what's-his- name's."  
"Can you be any more specific?" I growled.  
Spike just grinned. "I forget his name, the guy who was Nikki Wood's watcher. She lived in the 1970's. Giles and Wesley both have notes on Buffy and Faith, Slayers at the turn of the millenium. And I've got a few others."  
"Can I see them?"  
"NO," he said emphatically, then paused. "Later. Not now."  
"So, what exactly do you know about Slayers? I mean, how did they fall, why –"  
"Did they disappear for two hundred years?"  
"Right."  
Spike sighed. "In 1996, a slayer named Buffy Summers was called. She was fifteen, and turned out to be one of the best damn slayers ever. She started slaying in LA, now known as Ellar, but after awhile moved to Sunnydale."  
"What's Sunnydale?"  
"Little town north of LA that doesn't exist anymore."  
"Why?"  
"I'll get there. Back then, though, Sunnydale was the Hellmouth. All types of beasties liked to make Sunnydale their home."  
"So she killed them," I said, starting to get bored.  
"Can you listen for five minutes? There was also an ancient vampire, the Master, trapped under Sunnydale. A prophesy foretold that he would kill Buffy." I didn't see how this was important. "Thing is, when he did, he did a bloody horrible job. He only took enough blood from her to make her faint, so she ended up drowning in a nearby pool of water that she fell in. And you know what? If you die from a vampire bite, nothing can bring you back, but if you drown there's a window if time where somebody can bring you back with CPR. And that's what happened. And, unfortunately for all the vamps, she had died – which meant that –"  
"The next Slayer was called," I said, getting it.  
"Yeah. Years later, in 2003, The biggest of all the Big Bads decided to make a direct attack on the slayer line. It got its henchmen to kill the Potential Slayers, the girls who might one day become the Slayer. Buffy and Faith, of course, decided to do something about it. Buffy got a friend of hers to do a mighty powerful spell which turned all the Potentials into Slayers. Every single last one." He leaned back in his chair. "Thing is, the vamps and other demons didn't like that. They started killing the Neo- Slayers, starting with the weakest, and turning them into vampires. Do you know why vampires don't turn slayers?"  
"Two reasons. One is that the slayers-turned-vampires are way too powerful. Vamps don't want a super-race of vamps taking them over. So these under-trained slayers that they turned became killing machines, which the vamps pointed directly at the remaining slayers. There was a huge battle, where so few slayers were left that it was ridiculous. The remainder of them went into hiding. Then the vamps got payback for turning the slayers. You see, if you turn a slayer, you have to pretty much keep her occupied with killing humans 24/7, because if you don't, her slayer instincts kick in and they start butchering vampires. Tons of vamps died, but the remainder combined their strength and killed the slayers-turned-vampire. It was too late to save the Slayer race, though. After the few remaining Slayers died, their weren't enough Neo-Slayers popping up. Urkonn was wrong when he said that Slayers weren't being called. They were, but before anyone could do anything about it, vampires ripped their throats out."  
I sat there in shock for awhile. Then, finally, I managed to choke out a few words. "Why not me?"  
"Ironically enough, your archnemesis, Harth, saved you. They couldn't find a Slayer – just a suspiciously strong girl and her wimpy brother, who acted as if he had the dreams, but of course that's impossible, because he's not a girl."  
We were silent for awhile.  
"So, Spike," I said finally, "How do slayers get killed?"  
For some unknown reason, Spike started to laugh.  
"What?" I asked, confused.  
He shook his head. "Nothing. Irony, and all that rot. C'mon, I'll show you."  
  
TBC 


	3. Immortal

A/N: Figured I'd update before people forget this story even exists. Tried to make it an HTML doc so I could have italics, but oh joy, it didn't work. Finally figured out that I could add italics with the QuickEdit (duh).  
After all the wonderful ideas sent to me I'm changing this horribly short chapter and adding more to it! (For those who didn't read the original, yes, this chapter used to be shorter. Pathetic, no?)  
White avenger, thanks for the ideas on how to bring characters back and speculation on what the Immortal is.  
c-wolf: Thanks for reminding me that there are other people in Fray. I was concentrating to much on Mel and her grief over Loo's death.  
Kismet: hmmm.... Interesting. I always was kind of miffed how there was absolutely no closure to the friendship between Dawn and Spike ...  
And, to my readers out there: Yeah, I am going to bring some characters back, but don't get upset if I don't bring back your favorite. If I brought them all back, not only would that not be very realistic, but it would also be WAY to much for me to write in one fanfic ... Gunther, Erin, Harth, the Immortal and, in addition, Buffy, Xander, Willow, Giles, Angel .... No. I'm sorry, but I am human. I can't give each one a good amount of time in my story, so I can't justify it.

* * *

Harth Fray looked at the demon before him, contemplating. He was tall, and muscular, with a tan that, in this day and age, someone could only get by going to a salon. He had clothes that designated him as being from the uppers, sparkling white teeth, and the most annoying personality that Harth had ever come across.  
  
"So, you call yourself 'the Immortal'?"  
  
"So, you call yourself 'the one who will lead'?" he mocked. He laughed. "My dear boy, I've seen vampires far wiser and more experienced than yourself who met cruel deaths on the sharp end of a slayer's stake. I've seen numerous would-be apocalypses. I've seen great demons rise and fall. I can call myself whatever I please, and I do not have to take orders from a fledgling."  
  
Harth narrowed his eyes. "Icarus was far older than you, and he had no problems with it."  
  
"My dear boy, Icarus is dead," the Immortal said, as if talking to a child.  
  
"Am I?"  
  
Icarus immerged from the shadows. His face still bore the ancient tattoos from times long forgotten, but now had gruesome scars marring it. His arms, well muscled as always, looked as if they'd endured multiple fractures along with scars like the ones on his head and face. His clothes covered the rest of his body, but he walked with a limp in his left leg.  
  
The Immortal looked a little intimidated. Harth grinned too himself. That'll teach him, he thought, trying to undermine MY authority. Ha! As if he could ...  
  
"So, cut to the chase, Immortal," Icarus said, spitting out the name mockingly. "You say that you know inside information about the Slayer's new Watcher?"  
  
"Oh, yes. He's a very formidable opponent. See, like me –" the Immortal shot them a grin so maddeningly superior that it took ever fiber of control Harth had not to strangle him – "he's killed Slayers."

* * *

"'Every Slayer has a death wish'?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yep." I thought about that for a sec, then shrugged. Must be one of the slayer features that Harth got ... The stuff about the weapon was my big concern. I only had one. Getting a wooden stake was almost laughable. So what the hell would I do if I lost the scythe? Or more importantly, who would die next?

* * *

Talk of death and mayhem had lost its appeal for Spike several years ago. Therefore, after telling Mel about how Slayers fell – like he had to Buffy over two hundred years before – he felt almost sick with the thought of Nikki Wood's neck snapping and the memory of the Chinese Slayer's blood brought bile to his throat.  
  
He hadn't told Mel that the way he knew how Slayers die was because he'd killed a few himself. It was hard enough getting her to trust him as it was, but throw that on top ...  
  
He wanted to go visit Dawn's grave. He used to feel better after going there. Sure, when he went, he'd hope against hope that somehow, Dawn would, in death, give him the forgiveness that she withheld while she was alive. However, visiting her grave was now impossible – the increase in population had caused graveyards to be ripped to shreds.  
  
With Buffy, there'd been no funeral. No body. Gone forever, so thoroughly that Spike sometimes wondered if she'd been a figment of his imagination.  
  
When Fred died, there'd been no talk of burying her body. After all, it was still walking around, wasn't it? Was till this very day. Wasn't Fred, but still.  
  
Angel's death, at least, had been quick: stake through the heart, dying in battle, a hero. Exactly the way he would've wanted to go out. Spike hated just leaving his remains there, but you couldn't exactly give a funeral for a pile of dust, so instead, every year, on the day that Angel died, Spike went to the nearest church and lit a candle. He wasn't quite sure if he as mourning Angel's death or bidding the bastard good riddance, but what else was new? The day things regarding Angel weren't complicated was the day that someone would throw a snowball in hell.  
  
He'd seen them all die. Every single one – except Illyria. And who knew about Dru. But the fact that he was the only one left – well, him and an ex-demon monarch – made him feel incredibly old. The only time he'd ever felt like this before was before that final battle back in Sunny-D.  
  
He'd died, then. Idly, he wondered if he would now.  
  
At least then he'd see them again.

* * *

Hanging his jacket up carefully, making sure it didn't wrinkle, the Immortal pondered his new alliance. The boy was no trouble at all – just a stubborn little brat who was used to getting what he wanted. Icarus was the only real threat ...  
  
Sighing as he straightened his hair in the mirror, the Immortal considered Icarus. Icarus was almost as old as he was, and had a reputation for not only destruction, but being cunning an resourceful. In a time when vampires roamed the streets like an out of control fungus, Icarus had rounded up a gang which followed his every whim. His only weakness, it seemed, was the boy. But what type of weakness was this Harth Fray? Did Icarus simply worship him, or was Fray more like a son?  
  
"It doesn't matter," he assured himself. Soon, he'd have enough energy to control his secret weapon. He smirked. That should be fun ...  
  
He walked over to the glass coffin where his weapon slept. Silently, he appraised her. Not one day had been gained by her since he first put her under his spell; she was still the same young woman, beautiful and, surprisingly, deadly.  
  
"Soon, love, you'll finally be allowed to wake up," the Immortal told her. She couldn't hear him, of course, but it felt good to stand above her body, telling her what her fate was. The fate he was in control of. "Soon ..."  
  
A/N: Three guesses who the girl is, and the first two don't count. 


	4. Stone Cold

A/N: The last chapter was redone, thanks to all the terrific ideas I got. Thanks!  
  
Erin Fray felt an eerie sense of déjà vu as she went to open her apartment only to find it was unlocked. Hoping against hope that Mel wasn't on the other side, shivering, wet, col and beaten, she opened the door.  
  
She was relieved – and slightly surprised – when she saw Mel standing patiently, leaning against the window frame, looking calmly at the sunset. For a split second, Erin could see her youth – a nineteen-year-old girl, brought up in poverty, whose parents had died when she was young. Then the moment passed, and Mel had turned toward her, anything resembling peace gone from her expression. "About time you showed up," she growled. "I've been here almost an hour."  
  
Erin smiled, rolling her eyes. "I was working," she explained. "Arrested Tank Guestien. I can only hope those idiots in court put him away, cuz if they don't –"  
  
"He'll hunt you down till the day you die," Mel finished.  
  
Erin raised an eyebrow. "Friend of yours?"  
  
She snorted. "As if! Stupid pump screwed up an important grab once. Ruebin had told him to get the same thing Gunther told me to get. And you didn't hear that from me," Mel added.  
  
"So, what's up?" Erin asked, sitting back on the couch.  
  
"I want you to check this guy out for me," Mel said. "Not that I have a drop of confidence in the laws, and to be truthful this guy seems okay, it's just ..."  
  
"So was Urkonn," Erin finished.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"So, what's this guy's name?"  
  
"Calls himself Spike."  
  
Erin raised an eyebrow. "No last name?"  
  
"Who knows? Maybe that is his last name. I just want you to get any dirt you can on this guy, okay?"  
  
"Okay."

* * *

The girl stumbled through the streets, confused, as she had been for a long time ... too long to count. Every life was the same, it seemed, except for the first. The first one. The one where she'd never gotten to say goodbye, or sorry, or I forgive you ... the one that had stopped, abruptly, unfairly, after her child was born.  
  
She used to be warm. She used to be loved. She'd had a sister, and a husband. And there'd been others she could remember, others who'd loved her, who danced at the edges of her memory. There was a man who looked like an angel, an angel who had been taken over by darkness years ago ... there was another man, handsome, brotherly ... a woman, red hair ablaze, eyes sparkling with intelligence ... but they were gone. They must be. From her beautiful sister, to her loving husband, to the adorable child that was hers, which she'd never gotten to know ...  
  
So the girl kept searching the streets for any sign of familiarity, any sign of why she could remember these things from times so long ago ... she searched for the ones she suspected would still be alive, she searched for those she knew were gone ... but it always ended the same. The streets were not safe as they once were. For some time now, every life she'd had ended in blood and death ... it didn't matter if it was the lurks or the crime lords or the other street kids, you still died, alone, without anyone.

* * *

It had been awhile since I'd set foot into Amma and Jove's tav. Whenever I thought of entering it, all I could think of was the memory of carrying a little girl's corpse. The head had been twisted to an awkward angle when I'd found her, under some wreckage in my apartment. I remember lifting her as if she weighed nothing, like I had so many times before, except this time, Loo didn't smile and grab my arm, she just continued staring at nothing, her eyes empty, her body limp. I remembered carrying her to her parents. Their faces were full of shock when they saw their only daughter in my arms, quite obviously dead. They'd rushed toward me, they laid her body out on the table and cried as I watched, as I felt the horrible numbness fade, only to be replaced by a raging anger toward those who'd done this, for those who'd caused so much pain ...  
  
Understandably, I couldn't bear to enter the tav. It used to be my second home, but not it was a horrible memory. Now I stood, facing it, trying to sum up the will to enter. I'd seen Spike walk through the doors, swallowed by the warmth inside, and I needed to talk to him. But my legs refused to carry me the ten feet to the door. Even as I stood shivering outside, I couldn't gather the strength to step inside, and become warm.  
  
Fortunately for me, a distraction came. Distractions were good ... they made my feet move, they got my blood pumping. So when I saw the lurks gathering at the corner of the tav, I ran. I didn't have the scythe, I didn't have any backup, all I had were my fists and feet and the terrible need to silence the pain that tore through my heart.  
  
A/N: Okay, sort of a cliff-hanger ... so sue me. And I wanted this chapter to be longer, I really did, but it just turned out short for some reason. And please review. The more feedback I get, the better this fic becomes. And feel free to send me ideas, speculation, whatever comes to your head - I'd love to hear it.  



	5. Remember Me?

A/N: First off, I realized I've been forgetting the disclaimer. Well, in case you're curious, nothing is mine, just the idea for this fic. None of these characters are original or anything. Second, I've been horrible at updating, and I apologize ... I really need a good burst of inspiration, which I'm sorely lacking what with Buffy and Angel both off the air. I got a bit, which helped me finish this chapter. And from now on, I'm going to try to make the chapters a decent size.

* * *

The girl groped blindly through the alley, hoping to find some remainder of times past, hoping to find something that could tell her she wasn't crazy, something to give her life the meaning it had lacked for over a hundred years ...

The streets were barren and dead, which disturbed her greatly. They should be teeming with life, people walking down them, chatting happily, being alive. But instead, there was only the empty echoes of her small feet hitting the old cement pathways that carved their way through the towering skyscrapers. This is hell, she thought. The absence of life, of hope, and of warmth. Is that what had happened to her? Had she hit the deepest circle of hell, where sunlight couldn't reach, where demons ruled because no one could oppose them?

And then, just as the girl was about to give up hope, a man stepped from the shadows. He paid her no heed; he walked right by her, muttering to himself. But in the moment that her eyes rested on his face, recognition had shot through her like a knife. She knew who it was. He'd been there, all those years ago. And even though she remembered how she didn't trust him, how he had betrayed her, she followed him. He didn't notice her follow him; she smelled like the street, and her feet were bare and silent against the ground.

* * *

I didn't care about the ache of my muscles as I unleashed all their strength upon the attacking lurks. I didn't care about the feel of the skin scraping against the cold, rough pavement as they threw me to the ground. All I cared about was the empty hole inside me, which hadn't even begun to heal. Loo was gone, Loo was dead, and no matter how many lurks I killed, nothing could bring her back. She was the only reason I had left to live after Harth died; she was the only thing that kept me going, the thing that dragged me out of bed and made me get off my ass and grab, because she needed her meds, she needed _me_ ... and now she was gone. That thought always created a raging fire in my gut, that nothing could put out except my own despair.

There were too many lurks, I realized dimly. One was holding my arms behind me as another punched me hard, in the face. You deserve this, I told myself. You trusted Urkonn – you caused Loo's death. Still, I swung my legs forward, bunched them up and then jerked them forward again, sending the lurk in front of me flying backwards. The lurk behind me stumbled, and I twisted free, but two more were coming. I faulted over one and tackled the other to the ground, but this was all meaningless, I could hurt them but without a weapon I couldn't kill them. I quickly struggled to my feet, trying to dodge the three lurks that were heading toward me. I jumped over the counter of the tav, searching desperately for something, anything ... but all the equipment was designed for safety in case of a fight breaking out.

A lurk grabbed me and threw me to the floor. Stupidly, I put a hand out to steady my fall, and I heard the resounding CRACK as it impacted. Ignoring the horrible pain that now ran through my arm like a stainless steel knife, I got to my feet, yet again, but this time I couldn't move fast enough. Lurks were swarming all over me, and all the Slayer strength in the world wasn't going to save me.

For the first time in my life, I surrendered. I was going to die, I wanted to die – and with the thought of wanting to die in my head, I knew with absolute clarity that it would happen. Spike had told me – every slayer has a death wish. I hadn't given it a moment's thought at the time, hadn't even considered it a weakness ... but it was. I wanted to see Loo again. If I had to die to see her, than I would.

I laid, waiting for death ... but death didn't come. The lurs clawing at me disppeared.

Confused, I struggled to my feet. The ground was sick with my blood, and I slipped, but someone caught me, grabbing my arm roughly. Oh, well, what were a few more bruises?

I looked up at my rescuer, and my eyes met ice-blue ones. Very angry ice-blue ones.

"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?" Spike snapped.

"Fighting," I found myself replying.

"Without a weapon? Have you listened to what I've told you at all? You don't fight without weapons, unless you want to be killed."

"What do you care?" I asked. "I'm just a slayer, and a defective one at that."

"What do I care?!" Spike yelled. "Mel, I searched for you for years, do you realize that?"

"You searched for a slayer," I corrected.

"No," he said, "I searched for you."

Something about that surprised me. I looked up.

"Mel, you might want to die and join Loo or whatnot, but how do you think that will affect the people around you? Ava and Jove, they care about you, they worry about you, even though you don't let them. What about your sister? If you die, she'll be all alone. He brother vamped, her sister killed – do you really want her to have to go through with that? And your boss, whathisname – he seems to go through some awful hoops and jumps to protect you, from the laws, from his enemies – and I don't think it's just cuz you're his best runner. He cares about you, too."

I kept staring at him, confused. There was something that he was holding back, something he wasn't saying.

"Do you understand, Mel? You have to live. For them. Alright?"

I nodded, still trying to figure him out. There was something in his eyes which seemed somehow familiar, but I couldn't place where.

"Now, let's get you some more weapons so you never get caught in this situation again."

* * *

The man entered the building – his home, the girl thought – and she followed. It seemed miraculous that he didn't notice her – he'd always been aware of her, before. His heightened senses always gave her away. She'd found it annoying back then. She'd never really liked him, and it seemed wrong that he could keep tabs on her any time he wished.

She krept inside, looking around and confirming what she had thought: it was his home. Only he could take every spec of dust and dispose of it. It was another thing about him that she'd never liked; his obsession with cleanness. Everything had to be in the right spot, to get dirt on the floor was a sin. The same went for his own appearance: not a hair out of place, not a spec of dirt. It was probably one of the things that had drawn her to her husband: he wasn't that neat. Maybe he used to be, but when she met him, he had been merging with his darker side. His hair was always a bit messy, and it seemed like he was never completely clean. She'd found it somewhat endearing.

"You!"

She jumped. She'd been lost in her memories, and now he'd seen her. Briefly, she wondered why, but the answer was obvious: she was filthy, in an unnaturally clean environment. He could smell her.

"Hey, 'Mmortal," she said. Her voice sounded harsh. Talking scratched her throat.

The Immortal glared at her, and approached.

* * *

"What's this?" I asked.

"Reaper blade," Spike answered. "Very handy for beheading and so forth."

I looked it over. "I like it," I declared.

"I'm glad," Spike said. "However, we need something more portable." He picked up a long, thin blade. "This looks like it'll do. It'd fit nicely in those boots you wear."

"It needs a case," I pointed out.

"Sheath," Spike corrected. "Of course it does. Unless your feeling particularly masochistic." He gave me a pointed look.

"What's that?"

He sighed. "Never mind."

I was starting to grow restless. Shopping had never really been one of my interests. I saw, I grabbed, I kept. But Spike had said we might as well buy them, seeing how they'd probably save my life.

I kept thinking of the lurks at the tav. Why had so many gone to one place? It didn't make sense. Usually lurkes preyed on people who wandered into dark alleys. They didn't attack in the middle of the day, in broad sight of anyone.

It struck me: They were Harth's men. I wondered if Spike had figured it out, but then instantly grew suspicious. How did Spike know to be there?

I hoped those files of Erin's would come through soon. I wanted answers.

* * *

The Immortal looked at the child before him. She was dressed in filthy rags that hung around her so loosely that it was ridiculous. Her feet were filthy, bare, and appeared to have been cut in many places. Her hair hung around her in a filthy, knotted tangle. She was unnaturally thin; probably on the edge of starvation. He voice sounded as if she didn't know how to use it.

It was disgusting.

"Get out of here," he snapped.

"No," she said roughly. "You're the only one I've found that I 'member."

"Yes, well, I don't remember you." This child was highly annoying, he thought. He would have killed her, but it might have stained the carpet.

"'Course you don'. I was older when I met you."

Now she was talking nonsense. Wonderful.

"Get out before I kill you."

"Y'won' kill me," she said with infuriating certainty.

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

Her eyes – her wide, oddly alert eyes, shifted behind him. "She won' let you."

He turned. Ah, so the arrogant brat had noticed his prize. "When she wakes up, she'll be under my control," he said confidently.

The child made a sound, as if amused. "Her?" she asked. "Fine, go 'head an' try, but if she find out you killed me you'll be dead by ... by dawn." She laughed, as if that were funny.

The carpet be damned. He grabbed the child's boney arm roughly and shoved her outside. She'd die – but not on his carpet.

"You're going to die, little girl," he growled.

Her wide eyes looked up at him with innocent curiosity. "Am I?" she asked. "I haven' died in awhile, y'know."

"Well, you'll die tonight." He drew back his fist, ready to strike. This child was begging to die. He'd kill her, quick as anything, and then maybe he could meet that charming woman for dinner tonight.

To his immense surprise, though, he got knocked down. It took a second to figure out why: a man – or perhaps a demon – dressed all in black had thrown him, viciously, away from the girl. This warrior met his eyes and passed along the silent message: I'll die for her.

"Oh, you will," the Immortal muttered as he struggled to his feet. But the warrior was looking at the girl. Her eyes grew wider, and she cocked her head in curiosity ...

"Oh, look!"

The Immortal and the warrior both jumped at the sound of a woman's voice. The girl didn't seem to notice. She was still staring at the warrior in puzzlement.

The Immortal leapt to his feet and bolted. He had a reputation, and he wouldn't ruin it by being caught here.

As he ran away, he heard the woman speaking.

"Oh, look, Jove, isn't she darling? Reminds me of Loo, bless her soul. And it seems like she's an orphan. We should give her a home ..."


	6. Interlude

A/N: I'm not dead! And I haven't given up on this fic, either. I've just been busy, not to mention having a tremendous amount of computer trouble. I had a good start to the next chapter, but then – boom. My harddrive dies.

Anyway, this is basically me just doing a filer chapter so you know I'm alive and this fic shall be completed if it's the last thing I do. It might be finished slowly, but it will be finished.

------

Erin took off her duster and threw it over the back of a chair, sighing. Sitting down at her desk once more, she called up the files she'd found of potential "Spikes" based on the information that Mel had given her. Blond, she'd said. Average height. Scar on his eyebrow. Coat that appeared to be leather.

Leather like mine, Erin thought, glancing at the coat from the corner of her eye.

Erin started going through the files. None of them appeared as Mel had described – they were either too skinny, too fat, too tall, or too short. One had a huge scar running through his eye that Mel definitely would've noted … another had a beard. None were named "Spike" and very few seemed to professions that would merit the nickname "Spike".

Erin leaned back in her chair, staring at the files.

Wait. Hold on …

Mel had said his hair was blond. It may have appeared blond, but was it really? Probably no more than Mel's was blue and purple and green …but what color would it be, then?

Acting on a hunch, Erin changed the hair color to brown. Again, she rifled through file after file. Her attention started to wander, but she quickly focused it back on the files. She was a law – and she had to focus whenever needed. No emotion could get in the way.

There.

Spike Williams.

Erin stared at the file, memorizing every bit of information. Mel would want all the information possible …


	7. I Remember You

A/N: Yes, I am alive. Yes, I'm sorry for taking so long to update. Writer's block is the devil. I've been trying to bring myself to finish this, and ... have not been having any luck. I swore to myself I'd finish this chapter before uploading any of the other random fanfic I've been writing in my spare time, though, and um ... here it is?

And it will be finished. This thing will be finished even if it kills me. Might take half of forever, updates will probably be slow as molasses, but ... I know people like this, and so I'm going to finish it, if only for you guys.

* * *

"Spike Williams?" I asked, looking at the files. "That's a weird name." 

"Even weirder," Erin stated, "is that there are inconsistencies in the files." She pointed. "It states that his father's name was Angel Aurelius, and his mother was Drusilla Williams."

"Maybe he changed his name cuz he hated his old man."

"Possibly, especially since – get this – the files say Drusilla Williams and Angel Aurelius were never married. According to what I found, Angel married Darla Aurelius – no maiden name stated. And that's just the beginning – the entire family tree is a whole convoluted mess."

"Isn't everybody's?" I asked.

"Not like this."

We both stared at the holographic file.

"This is impossible," I declared.

"Tell me about it. The file also says that Drusilla Williams is Angel Aurelius's daughter, and that –"

"No, not that," I said. "Look at the stats ... there's no DOB. Or rather, there is, but it doesn't include a year. The file says he's currently twenty-eight, sure, but ... don't they usually include a year in the DOB?"

Erin stared. "I ... I didn't catch that. That is odd."

"Yeah," I agreed. "And look – no year on the DOBs of his family, no year on the date her legalized that coat of his, no year on – anything."

We paused, staring at the file in new light.

"I can figure out the years," Erin said at last, "but I'd need to run a cross-check on some of these things, mainly the legalization of the leather jacket. I can run the serial number through the system, see what it turns up."

"Okay," I said, "until then, what?"

"How about I buy you a few drinks?"

I stared. "Wow, Erin, that's almost ... sisterly."

Erin rolled her eyes. "Do you want to go to Ama and Jove's tav?"

"No," I said automatically, thinking of Loo. "Yes," I amended – how was I going to get past this grief gig I was hung up on if I wasn't even willing to talk to Ama and Jove? "Maybe. I dunno. Should laws even go to a tav in this area?"

"Just don't get into fights, and we'll be fine."

* * *

The girl turned her head toward the door slowly as she heard it swing open. The people who'd taken her here – Ama and Jove? – didn't even turn at the sound. People came in all day, and deep down, the girl knew why, but she couldn't remember. It was frustrating. 

The man who stepped in ... that she remembered. She remembered him. He was ... she couldn't remember his name. He was someone she remembered.

His hair was longer. And had blue on the edges. She found that odd. His hair was supposed to be short ...

The coat was the same, though. New patches, maybe. But it was the coat.

What was his name again ...?

She's yelled at him. Shut him out. She couldn't remember why. Sister. It had something to do with Sister. But what? Sister was ... who was Sister again? It was so long ago. Too long.

"Hey," she called out, but it didn't sound right. Too quiet. Too rough.

He heard anyway and turned toward her.

"Hey, li'l bit," he said shortly before turning away again.

That reminded her ...

"Spike."

He turned back, surprised. "What?"

"Spike. You're Spike."

He stared. "Who are you?"

She frowned. "I can't remember."


End file.
